Chapter 27: The Math Problem Called New York City
In which Spider-Man discovers that one teenager plus one city equals impossible.
The rest of the night passed peacefully for Peter Parker.
Which, in Spider-Man terms, meant:
No explosions, no screaming villains, no stolen helicopters (on purpose).
Just the soft hum of the city, the wind brushing past rooftops, and Peter lying awake with his brain doing parkour.
He stared at the ceiling of his room, hands folded on his chest, replaying the night like a badly edited highlight reel.
Tombstone.
Harlem.
Bodies.
Sirens.
Black Cat. (Okay—especially Black Cat.)
Peter groaned and rolled onto his side.
New York City was huge. Like, unfairly huge. A sprawling concrete monster with millions of people, thousands of crimes, and exactly one teenage spider-themed vigilante trying not to mess everything up.
That was the problem.
He couldn't be everywhere at once.
Crime didn't schedule appointments. It didn't wait for him to finish homework or eat dinner or process trauma. It just… happened. In Harlem. In Hell's Kitchen. In Queens. In places he couldn't reach fast enough.
And every second he wasn't there—
Someone else paid the price.
Peter clenched his jaw.
He needed help.
Not sidekicks. Not cheerleaders. Allies.
Jess was already operating in Harlem—but she was still training. Still learning control, restraint, patience. Throwing her into the deep end now would be like tossing someone into shark-infested waters and saying, "You'll figure it out."
And Peter knew himself well enough to admit something worse.
He'd worry about her constantly.
That kind of distraction got people killed.
But Harlem wasn't unprotected.
There was someone else there.
Someone who lived in the shadows.
Someone who didn't swing through the air making jokes.
Someone who treated crime like a grim equation that always ended in bruises.
Daredevil.
Peter had heard the stories. Everyone had.
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Blind. Ruthless. Unyielding.
A man who knew the streets better than anyone, who fought like he had nothing left to lose.
If there was anyone who understood the ground-level war—the alleyways, the gangs, the quiet horrors—it was him.
"Yeah," Peter muttered to the dark. "You're my best shot."
There were others, sure.
Iron Fist—mystical, disciplined, unpredictable.
She-Hulk—powerful, professional, terrifying when annoyed.
Moon Knight—absolutely unhinged and possibly three people at once.
Not exactly the kind of folks who'd hear "Hey, I'm new, wanna coordinate?" and respond with hugs and shared calendars.
No. Those alliances had to be earned.
But Daredevil?
Daredevil might listen.
So tomorrow, Peter decided, he'd go looking for a devil.
With that thought finally settled—his brain reluctantly powering down—Peter closed his eyes.
The city kept breathing outside his window.
And for a few precious hours…
Spider-Man slept.
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While Peter Parker slept—dreaming the kind of dreams that involved falling off buildings and being late for exams—something far less restful was happening elsewhere in New York.
High above the city, in an office so expensive it probably had its own zip code, Wilson Fisk sat perfectly still.
No pacing.
No yelling.
No dramatic glass-throwing.
Just silence.
His enormous hands were steepled beneath his chin, thick fingers unmoving, as if they'd been carved from stone. His face—wide, heavy, and unreadable—showed nothing. But inside?
A storm was ripping the walls apart.
Another piece off the board.
And not just any piece.
Tombstone.
A survivor.
A tank.
A man who had walked out of hell more times than Fisk could count.
And now?
Broken.
Stolen from.
Left alive on purpose.
That last part bothered Fisk the most.
This hadn't been chaos. It hadn't been panic. It had been a message.
Fisk exhaled slowly through his nose.
"This Spider-Man," he murmured, voice calm enough to chill glass, "is not a nuisance."
Daredevil was a nuisance.
Daredevil had rules.
Boundaries.
A neighborhood.
Fisk understood him. Had studied him. Had adapted to him.
But Spider-Man?
He moved too fast.
Hit too hard.
And didn't stay in his lane.
Worst of all—
He wasn't merciful in the way heroes usually were.
What he'd done to Tombstone wasn't justice.
It was discipline.
Fisk's lips pressed into a thin line.
"A super-powered Punisher," he muttered.
And that?
That was bad for everyone.
Wilson Fisk had learned many lessons in his life, and most of them involved blood.
He had grown up in filth—literal and figurative. His father was a crack addict with fists like hammers and a temper that struck faster than lightning. Weakness was punished. Kindness was a lie.
At twelve years old, Fisk learned the most important rule of all.
If you don't strike first, you don't get to strike at all.
That was the year he killed his father.
From then on, he vowed never to be small again.
He trained his body until it became something unnatural—sumo wrestling, street combat, bone-breaking endurance. People saw his size and assumed slowness.
They were wrong.
Then he trained his mind.
Books stolen. Knowledge hoarded. Politics dissected like anatomy lessons. He learned how power really worked—not in punches, but in pressure.
By fifteen, people were already calling him Kingpin.
Not because he asked.
Because they feared him.
He didn't just rise.
He arranged the climb.
Drug wars.
Gang manipulation.
Political puppets dancing on invisible strings.
By the time the city noticed, it was already his.
New York belonged to Wilson Fisk.
Or it had.
Norman Osborn was the complication.
Osborn didn't want the underworld.
He wanted everything.
Light and dark.
Crime and commerce.
Heroes and villains alike.
Fisk despised that kind of ambition.
Because men like Osborn didn't share thrones.
They burned them.
And now—just to make things worse—Spider-Man had entered the board.
Three monsters.
One city.
Fisk's gaze shifted to the massive window overlooking New York.
"Change is coming," he said quietly.
And Fisk hated change he didn't control.
He didn't rush.
That was another lesson.
Rushing got men killed.
Instead, he planned.
Spider-Man needed a countermeasure.
Not muscle.
Not guns.
Not men who hesitated when things went wrong.
He needed something that would hunt.
Something tireless.
Fearless.
Precise.
Fisk reached for the phone on his desk—an old-fashioned thing, heavy and solid.
He dialed a number from memory.
When the voice on the other end answered, Fisk didn't waste words.
"I need a solution," he said.
"A hunter."
"One that doesn't miss."
A pause.
Then Fisk smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile.
And Peter Parker, still fast asleep, had no idea that the game had just leveled up.
----------------------------
Spencer Smythe was the kind of man who smiled too much when talking about things that really shouldn't smile back.
He sat across from Wilson Fisk in a reinforced underground laboratory—one of those places where the walls were thick, the lighting was sterile, and every surface quietly screamed classified. Holographic schematics floated between them, rotating slowly: sleek mechanical forms, jointed limbs, glowing optics.
Robots.
Not the helpful kind that vacuum floors or politely beep at you when dinner is ready.
The hunting kind.
"These," Smythe said enthusiastically, tapping a control pad and enlarging one of the projections, "are not simple drones, Mr. Fisk. They are predators."
Fisk didn't react. He rarely did.
Smythe took that as encouragement.
"I studied the Sentinel programs extensively," Smythe continued, pacing now, hands waving as if conducting an orchestra of doom. "Marvelous concept. Truly. But too rigid. Too… specific. They were built for mutants and only mutants."
He smiled wider.
"My designs?" He leaned closer to the projection. "They don't care what you are. Only that you exist."
One of the holograms shifted, its optics flaring red.
"They learn," Smythe said softly. "They adapt. They observe patterns—movement, reaction times, preferred terrain. The more Spider-Man fights them…"
His eyes gleamed.
"…the better they become at killing him."
Fisk finally spoke.
"Can you make it happen?"
The question wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Smythe straightened, almost offended by the doubt.
"Oh, Mr. Fisk," he said, voice brimming with confidence that bordered on lunacy. "I can do far more than that. I can make something that tracks him. Something that never sleeps, never tires, and never forgets."
He paused, savoring the moment.
"You give me resources, and I will ensure this Spider-Man becomes a solved problem."
Fisk leaned back in his chair, the reinforced steel creaking slightly under his immense weight.
He considered the cost.
The money.
The exposure.
The risk.
Then he thought of Tombstone—broken.
Of warehouses emptied overnight.
Of a masked figure who didn't hesitate.
Machines didn't bleed.
Machines didn't panic.
Machines didn't fail unless their creator did.
"If Spider-Man is enhanced," Fisk said calmly, "I want him alive if possible."
Smythe's grin returned, sharper this time.
"Oh, that can be arranged. Studied. Improved upon."
Fisk nodded once.
"You have your funding."
Smythe practically vibrated with excitement.
But even as plans were set in motion, Fisk knew better than to act recklessly.
This wasn't one war.
It was many.
Tombstone and The Persuader were gone—for now. Pulling them out immediately would draw attention. The wrong kind of attention.
Men in black coats.
Eyes in the sky.
A certain organization with a fondness for acronyms.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
And then there were the Avengers.
Fisk had no interest in turning New York into a battleground for gods, soldiers, and billionaires in flying armor.
So he would wait.
Let Spider-Man feel victorious.
Let the city breathe.
Let the heat cool.
And when the time was right—
The hunters would be unleashed.
Wilson Fisk gazed at the city skyline, massive hands resting calmly at his sides.
"Every spider believes the web belongs to him," he murmured.
His eyes hardened.
"They always forget who built the walls."
Somewhere deep beneath New York, metal claws were being sharpened.
And the hunt was about to begin.
---------------------------
No vigilante—none—escaped the watchful, caffeine-fueled eye of J. Jonah Jameson.
Spider-Man definitely didn't.
The moment Peter Parker pulled on a mask and decided gravity was optional, he unknowingly stepped onto Jameson's true battlefield.
Not rooftops.
Not alleys.
Not even police stations exploding at three in the morning.
No—Jameson's battlefield was public opinion.
And Jameson never lost there.
The next morning, the Daily Bugle hit the streets like a brick through a window.
Literally. One vendor swore a gust of wind slapped a paper into his face so hard it left a mark.
The headlines screamed in capital letters so aggressive they might as well have been yelling out loud:
WHO IS SPIDER-MAN?
ATTACK ON POLICE STATION STOPPED BY MASKED VIGILANTE!
IS THE NYPD IMPOTENT?
WHERE WAS THE FANTASTIC FOUR?
WHERE WERE THE "HEROES"?
It wasn't journalism.
It was a verbal uppercut.
Jameson had seized the moment with the precision of a man who lived for moments like this. Public fear? Confusion? Anger?
Perfect ingredients.
He didn't just aim at Spider-Man—he aimed at everyone.
The Avengers.
The Fantastic Four.
Every costumed hero who hadn't shown up when Harlem burned.
And here was the worst part:
Peter couldn't even fully argue with it.
Where were they?
Why had it fallen on him—some guy who still worried about rent—to stop Tombstone from turning a police station into modern art titled "Gunfire and Regret"?
That question stuck in Peter's brain like a burr.
Jameson's hatred of vigilantes wasn't random screaming into the void.
It was structured screaming.
He had reasons.
He had history.
He'd watched men with power promise the world—and then crack under it. He'd seen heroes turn into liabilities. He'd seen masks become excuses.
Jameson didn't trust power without accountability.
And to be fair?
That wasn't a stupid position.
He fought corruption the only way he knew how—ink, paper, and a voice loud enough to rattle windows three blocks away.
What made Jameson dangerous wasn't volume.
It was credibility.
He didn't fake news.
He didn't plant lies.
He didn't invent villains.
He told his truth.
And in a city drowning in noise, Jameson's truth carried weight.
New York listened to him.
Even people who hated him respected him.
Which meant when Jameson pointed a finger at Spider-Man, it wasn't just a rant—it was a challenge.
A demand.
Who gave this kid the right?
Who watches the ones who watch us?
And suddenly, Peter realized something chilling.
Jameson wasn't just an annoying guy behind a desk.
He was one of the most powerful men in the city.
Because if Jameson ever succeeded—if he turned the public fully against Spider-Man—
Then Peter's war wouldn't just be against criminals.
It would be against the city itself.
And that?
That was a fight no amount of webbing could easily fix.
-----------------------
Peter Parker read the Daily Bugle the way most people read a horror novel.
Slowly. Carefully. And with the creeping sense that something awful was about to jump out at him.
The newspaper lay spread across the breakfast table, its bold headlines practically shouting at him between bites of Aunt May's perfectly toasted bread.
Peter sighed into his tea.
New York had so many heroes.
The Fantastic Four.
The Avengers.
Doctor Strange, who literally lived down the street in a house that broke reality on a daily basis.
And yet—
Crime still crawled through the city like a bad rash that refused to go away.
Peter had grown up admiring these people. Posters on walls. Documentaries. Stories of gods and geniuses saving the world.
But now?
Now he couldn't stop the thought from forming.
Why aren't they doing more?
He stabbed a piece of toast with unnecessary force.
Was it pride?
Did they think street-level crime was beneath them?
Did they look at places like Harlem and think, Eh, someone else will handle it?
The idea made his chest tighten.
Then he stopped himself.
That wasn't fair.
Maybe they had reasons.
Maybe they were busy holding planets together, stopping invasions, or arguing with cosmic entities that looked like abstract art.
But still—
People were dying.
And he—a broke college student with homework due—was the one swinging into gunfire.
Peter pushed the paper aside and looked up.
Uncle Ben sat across from him, calmly buttering his toast like the world wasn't constantly on fire. Aunt May poured tea, humming softly, blissfully unaware that her nephew was having a mild philosophical crisis before 8 a.m.
"Uncle Ben," Peter asked, carefully, "what do you think about… all this?"
Ben glanced at the newspaper, then back at Peter. He didn't answer right away.
That was how Peter knew this was going to be one of those talks.
Finally, Ben spoke. "You mean why the other heroes aren't everywhere all the time?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah. I mean… they're powerful. They've saved the world more times than I can count. So why does it feel like the little stuff gets ignored?"
Ben took a slow sip of tea.
"Peter," he said gently, "people who risk their lives over and over to save others aren't doing it for pride."
Peter frowned slightly.
"If someone is willing to stand between danger and innocent people," Ben continued, "then ego usually isn't the problem. That kind of courage doesn't come from thinking you're better than everyone else."
He set his cup down.
"They must have reasons. Things we don't see. Burdens we don't understand."
Peter stared at the table.
"And assuming the worst about people who've always done good?" Ben added quietly. "That's a mistake. One that can turn you bitter real fast."
The words hit harder than any punch Peter had taken the night before.
Aunt May smiled at both of them. "Now eat before it gets cold. The world will still be complicated after breakfast."
Peter smiled faintly and picked up his toast again.
Ben was right.
He didn't have all the answers.
But one thing he knew for sure?
Until those answers came—
He wasn't going to stop helping.
Even if it meant being the only one swinging into the dark.